THE MORNING is a new birth. I lay curled, foetally autohugging my knees within the warm womb of my bed. Suddenly the metaphorical waters are broken, my alarm clock shrieks; a pair of cold forceps gripping at my head. I stir, the sharp tug on my umbilical cord begins.
Blindly, I stumble down the entwining birth canal that is the entrance to Finsbury Park Tube station. I enter this great mechanism, this network for a throbbing metropolis, this Great Bear, this silk woven, living breathing spider web. As I emerge on Euston Road, I am the newborn. The soot, the dirt, the dust of the Underground is my afterbirth.
London. Londonchester. Londinistan. Londinium. It has many guises, but each has the same fundamental essence. It is the beating heart emboldened by a rushing roar. This, sweet dirty city, this unnecessary literary masturbation, this sharp mind, this acidic stomach, this convulsing intestinal tract, this irritating flatulence – it is part of me.
And then; Gower Street.
The immortal Bentham, that waxwork wanker, the godless heart of this place, the mighty godhead. Take me to your leader. I am yours. Stop me. Bend me. Shape me. Any way you want me. As it was said in the Holy Scripture, “lift up my eyes unto your scrotum and I will fellate myself with my eyehole and city.” (Genesis, Track 7, Greatest Hits).
I return to the grave once more. My time has passed. Eastenders is over. Minty hit Pauline. I crawl, into my tomb and I breathe out – the slumber grips me. I dream forever, of this glorious cityscape.